


Piecemeal

by Kiranokira



Category: My Engineer (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Protective King, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26699281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiranokira/pseuds/Kiranokira
Summary: King undergoes his very first experience taking care of Ram with a fever.•King smirks. “Oh, what’s this?”Ram freezes.“Usually you’re the one doing this,” King says. “Could it be you don’t want to get close to me for some reason?”Ram’s expression twists mutinously.“Maybe someone’s not feeling his best and doesn’t want to get his cute boyfriend sick?“
Relationships: King/Ram (My Engineer)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 258





	Piecemeal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [midnightboba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightboba/gifts).



> [Russian Translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/10318177) by Kassiopea

They have a system to a peaceful evening: they eat dinner together, then King showers while Ram feeds the dogs, then Ram puts the dogs in their room while King sprawls out somewhere with his phone, then it’s Ram’s turn to shower while King waits for him. When they reconvene, sex. Sometimes on the sofa, more frequently on the bed.

They’re three and a half weeks into this arrangement where King is living with and dating Ram, and he feels comfortable classifying the ever-present cloak of emotion wrapped around him these days as ”smugness”. Yesterday, he serenely informed a friend that the solution to all life’s problems is to land a perfect boyfriend. He doesn’t remember which friend he said it to; he was busy looking across the canteen at the wonder of Ram buying lunch.

“You’re revolting,” Ting Ting told him. “So I’m taking your milk.” Then she did.

King allowed it. He was planning to drink half of whatever Ram got anyway.

Until sunset every single day, King lives with ease. Something about daylight makes the world feel clear with nothing to fear.

Night is trickier. Things are quieter, especially when it’s just him and Ram (and the monsters in the spare bedroom). Thinking escalates when it’s quiet.

Showered and drowsy, King opens the door to the bathroom and nearly teleports out of his skin when a wet nose bumps his leg. Squawking, King pushes the door closed, heart stampeding, and yells, “RAM!”

They have a _system!_

The terrorbeasts are supposed to be on their way to their room with Ram by now. Not _lying in wait_ for him!

When Ram doesn’t answer after King’s third frantic call, King leaps to the obvious conclusion that Ram is dead. The dogs all went rabid at the same time and ate him, and now King is going to starve in this bathroom, or they’ll just gnaw through the door and eat him too.

King puts a hand over his face, forcing a deep breath.

He’s not going to die by dogs.

He’s long had ambitions of dying in a meadow surrounded by flowers and fireflies, and he’s going to stick to that plan.

With a deep, bracing breath (and maybe a small whimper), King opens the door a sliver and shouts, “HEEL!” 

He can see two of the three dogs approaching the door, but the command is effective. Despite some ornery noises he’s learned are unique to huskies, they sit. And then whine some more.

King tells himself he’s not going to die four more times, then dashes for the living room.

The third dog is there, and so is Ram.

Relief and terror war inside his mind, and King’s, _“Ram,”_ is plaintive.

His boyfriend, the one he loves and the entire reason there are terrorbeasts living in his condo, is on the sofa with his back to King and his earbuds in. The third dog has its muzzle on his leg, and Ram’s scritching rhythmically behind its left ear.

It’s definitely seen King, and its eyes fix on him despite its head remaining dutifully still on Ram’s knee.

King tells himself he’s not jealous of the dog.

Then he admits that he is, because he can’t focus enough to be petrified and dishonest at once.

Ram must see him in the window reflection, because he startles and pulls one of the earbuds out as he turns around. “Sorry,” he says. “Are they—?”

King tells him, _“Yes,”_ and climbs onto the back of the sofa where he can sulk about it safely.

Ram apologizes and pushes himself off the sofa, swaying once he’s standing. King tracks his and the dogs’ progress across the room, and the answer clicks into place just as Ram returns sans terrorbeasts.

King says, “Come here,” and drops down onto the sofa’s middle cushion.

Ram does as asked, and when he’s close enough, King takes his wrist gently and pulls until Ram’s seated next to him.

“Are you sick?” King asks.

Ram’s eyes flicker back and forth between King’s for a moment before he shakes his head.

King tells him, “I nearly died just now, Ram,” with pristine calm. “I will strangle you with a vine if you lie to me.”

Ram’s eyebrow lifts with skepticism.

King says, “My least favorite one. I’ll do it. He’s been difficult lately. It’d serve both of you right.”

Ram says, “I’m just tired,” and as usual, his voice is soft and calm and distracting.

King kisses his forehead anyway, the way his mother always does, and then decides, “I have no idea,“ because body heat is body heat to him.

Ram rolls his eyes and pushes off the back of the sofa to stand again, and King has a split second to remember that he did the same thing just a minute ago when Ram sways again and grabs onto King’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Yep,” King says, standing and pulling Ram’s arm over his shoulders, “that’s what we call ‘unwell’, ewe.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ram says for the dozenth time this month. He leans on King as they head to the bedroom.

King merrily ignores his suggestion and says, “Brush your teeth yet?”

Ram shakes his head, so King takes them on a segue to the bathroom.

Once they’re inside, Ram braces one hand on the sink and drops his arm from around King’s back. “I’m gonna shower,” Ram says. “I’ll be okay.”

King leans on the wall centimeters away and well within reach. “The fuck you will,” he says sweetly. “As the person in this condo with the most firsthand experience being concussed, I’m not leaving you alone to hit your head in the shower and drown.”

Ram opens his mouth to argue, then visibly gives up.

King rewards his acquiescence with another kiss, this one on the tattoo under his ear.

“Why are you so obsessed with death tonight?” Ram asks. He’s still holding onto the sink with one white-knuckled hand.

King says, “Go shower before I change my mind about this and carry you to bed.”

Ram seems tempted to call him on that, but he doesn’t test King further. While he showers, King sits on the counter with his phone. The steam gives him some cool selfies, and he posts two of them for an ego boost.

He’s watching the likes roll in with a grin when the water cuts off. In the time it takes Ram to pull the curtain aside, King is waiting with a towel held open for him.

Ram says, “I’m not six.”

King says, “C’mere anyway.”

Ram doesn’t have an argument for that. Just a sigh. Two steps later, he’s enveloped in a towel and King’s arms, blatantly trying not to smile while King croons in his ear about how cute he looks with his hair plastered to his forehead.

Ten minutes later, they’re in bed and the last of Ram’s energy is draining fast. King doesn’t own a thermometer, but he tells Ram he’ll go out and get one before his first class. He gives Ram a tall glass of water instead and commands him to hydrate.

When it’s empty, Ram drops onto his side and closes his eyes with a flinch. Still, he insists, “I’m not sick. I’m just tired.”

King says, “Sure thing, liar,” and slings his arm around Ram’s waist to cinch him in tight under the blankets.

Ram says, “Wait,” and squirms against him, his eyes wide with alarm.

King smirks. “Oh, what’s this?”

Ram freezes.

“Usually you’re the one doing this,” King says. “Could it be you don’t want to get close to me for some reason?”

Ram’s expression twists mutinously.

“Maybe someone’s not feeling his best and doesn’t want to get his cute boyfriend sick?“

This close, their noses nearly touching, King can see the fever brightness in Ram’s eyes. The urge to tease him lessens, and King strokes Ram’s cheek with his thumb until Ram closes his eyes and exhales with a soft noise that could be involuntary.

“I’ve got you,” King whispers. He kisses Ram’s hair and smooths a palm over his back. “Just relax. If you feel any worse, we’ll go to the clinic, okay? I have you. I’ve got you.”

Ram tucks his face against King’s neck and inhales with effort.

“I feel like shit,” Ram whispers back.

King rubs his chin on Ram’s scalp fondly. “I know you do,” he says.

The quiet stretches, punctuated by the distant sounds of collars jingling and terrorbeast claws tapping on the floor. King’s sure Ram’s asleep from the deep breaths he’s taking. He closes his eyes and keeps stroking Ram’s back until sleep takes him, too.

Nights can be trickier to navigate than days because all of King’s fears thrive best in silence. But tonight, King can’t hear the silence over Ram’s deep breaths and his own full-day plan to nurture Ram back to health when the light of day returns.


End file.
